The arrival of Easter signaled not peace, but war—a war waged against parchment. The Hogwarts professors, perhaps in a coordinated effort to ensure their students didn't lapse into lazy, sun-drenched apathy, had unleashed an avalanche of holiday homework.
It was a time-honoured tradition, meant to encourage diligent study and ward off the dreaded prospect of failing the year-end exams, which could, in exceptionally rare and dire circumstances, lead to a temporary expulsion.
"Don't you have to fret about repeating the year, Albert?" Lee Jordan asked, peering over the top of his latest essay, which concerned the rather dry "Twelve Primary Uses of Dragon's Blood." He was exhausted, but Albert, sitting across the table, was engrossed in his own esoteric project, seemingly immune to academic pressure.
Without looking up, Albert calmly recited the entire list: "Twelve uses of dragon blood: Oven cleaner, spot remover, cure for stubborn verruca, floor polish, antidote for certain poisons, etcetera. Yes, Lee, I've looked into it."
"You shouldn't have even asked him," Fred sighed dramatically, dropping his Transfiguration textbook onto the table with a theatrical groan. "The man could probably score better than us even if he spent the entire break just sleeping. But seriously, why are we starting the marathon over a month early?"
"I heard a rumour from Percy," George said, covering a massive yawn. He looked directly at Albert, his eyes sparkling with gossip. "He said Professor Brod is set to resign in mid-May. Is that true?"
"Yes, that is absolutely correct," Albert confirmed with a decisive nod. "It's why the Defence Against the Dark Arts post opened up in the first place, and it's why McDougal is stepping in."
George leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice despite the common room being largely empty. "I also heard that Professor Brod prepared the final exam questions before he finalized his leaving date. You spend half your time in his office—have you… seen the question papers?"
Albert looked at him with an expression of mild disdain. "You are definitely thinking too much, George. Whether I look at the exam questions or not is irrelevant to my outcome. Why would I risk my reputation for cheating when I don't need the advantage?"
"Right, right, no cheating," Fred muttered, still attempting to practice the rudimentary wand movements required for a complex interspecies Transfiguration—reportedly a mandatory practical component of the O.W.L. exams. He was struggling with the precision.
"How profoundly depressing! We finally have a break, and we're buried alive in essays," Lee Jordan complained, abandoning his text to approach Albert's workstation. "What are you up to now? Making another protective bracelet?"
"Yes, the prototype I created last time, Version 1.0, was inadequate," Albert explained, not bothering to conceal his work. The twins and Lee were now gathered around, haphazardly sweeping his accumulated wood shavings into the fireplace. "I'm trying to improve it. I've absorbed a good deal of new theoretical knowledge lately, which should prove quite useful in refining the enchantment."
"'Just learned it'?" Fred latched onto the phrase. "From Professor Brod? Did he teach you some advanced Dark Arts counter-spell?"
"I'm exploring the practical application of Ancient Runic channeling," Albert replied, deliberately using overly technical language to discourage further probing. "Aren't you supposed to be doing your homework? The common room is quiet now; it's the perfect time."
"We're not in any particular hurry," George lied unconvincingly.
"And what about you, Albert?" Lee asked, noticing his absence from the library. "Angelina was asking why she hasn't seen you struggling with us over the last few days."
"He doesn't have to struggle, Lee," George interjected sourly. "He was excused from most of his Transfiguration homework by Professor McGonagall, and I assume he's excused from Professor Brod's assignments too, given his unique situation."
"Oh, why am I stuck with such a ridiculous amount of compulsory work?" Fred wailed, feeling increasingly persecuted by the education system.
Shana, one of the fifth-year Gryffindors who had just finished her own Transfiguration assignment and was wearily stretching her arms, offered a cynical thought. "If you could publish a major essay in Transfiguration theory, you wouldn't have to do the homework either, Fred. That's the level of genius you'd need."
Despite their collective grievances, the twins and Lee knew they had to press on. Failing the exams would lead to a far more miserable summer break at home.
Albert, however, was far from idle. His current focus was the iterative improvement of his homemade ward.
He held up his latest attempt, the Crude Protective Bracelet Version 1.1. It was subtly different from the original, with new, complex runic sequences carved into the surface. However, its practical effect remained utterly mediocre.
The bracelet's magical endurance was no better than if he had simply cast a weak, one-off shield charm. The sophisticated ancient runes he had so carefully inscribed were having zero measurable impact on the overall enchantment's stability or power.
The result was clear: Failure.
Albert meticulously recorded the outcome in his journal, the "Protective Bracelet Production Guide": "Protective Bracelet Version 1.1: Complete failure. Desired runic amplification effect was not achieved. Functionally identical to Version 1.0. Runic sequences remain passive."
He had originally hoped that the successful creation of an enhanced protective item would trigger the unlocking of an Alchemy skill on his system panel, similar to a crafting skill. This latest failure, however, strongly suggested that his crude bracelet didn't even qualify as an alchemical product—it was merely a decorated piece of wood.
Over the next few days, Albert keenly observed McDougal accelerating the pace of his writing. The third part of the manuscript—the application of runic spellcasting—was being drafted at a furious pace. Although the content was largely beyond Albert's current capacity to fully implement, it proved astonishingly insightful.
Unlike the previous theoretical sections, Part Three was a practical guide, detailing the direct casting of spells using runic configurations. McDougal wasn't just talking about the Patronus Charm; he was using multiple Ancient Magic spells as illustrations.
McDougal described a specific, powerful protective spell, seemingly addressing Albert directly through the manuscript's clear, tutorial tone. When translated, the spell's name was "Comprehensive Protection" (or Absolutae Defensio in a rough Latin equivalent).
This ancient spell was structurally similar to the modern Ironclad Charm (Protego). However, where Protego created a directional, convex shield in front of the caster, Absolutae Defensio generated an invisible, total protective barrier that enveloped the mage from all sides and angles. According to McDougal's meticulous notes, the caster was essentially sealed within an impenetrable, self-sustaining magical passport.
If the Ironclad Charm was a spell of medium difficulty, the Comprehensive Protection spell was, without a doubt, a spell of extreme complexity and difficulty to cast reliably.
Albert, fueled by the Grimoire's theoretical knowledge, attempted to cast this spell under the private supervision of Professor Brod. Predictably, he failed completely.
He turned to Brod for an explanation, having already exhausted his own logical checks. "I am failing to cast these ancient, runic-based spells every single time. My power must be insufficient, as you suggested, or I am simply missing the true trick."
Professor Brod's insight was, as always, incredibly sharp. "Your magical power is indeed not strong enough to comfortably support these immensely old and power-hungry spells, Albert," he confirmed. "But that is only half the problem. Your comprehension and application of the Ancient Runic Tone are only superficial."
Brod recognized Albert's fundamental problem: a lack of experiential depth. Even a genius cannot instantly master a system that took generations to develop. Ancient magic demanded not just knowledge, but resonance. If someone were to dedicate months to intense, personalized practice, Albert might eventually achieve fluency, but he couldn't simply download the skill from a book.
Professor Brod, the resident expert in practical Defense, had no intention of accelerating Albert's path through sheer instruction. Both he and McDougal believed that the young wizard needed to slow down and integrate the runic theory before attempting the execution. Hasty action in such powerful magic was always dangerous.
"I suggest you continue to explore the practical potential of the modern Ironclad Charm rather than dwelling on these old spells," Professor Brod advised. "Modern wizards have developed many powerful variations based on the original protective spell, which are far more efficient for quick use."
"Like the Super Armor Charm (Protego Maxima)?" Albert ventured, naming the massive collective shield spell used in the final battle at Hogwarts—a scene he had seen played out vividly in his future-knowledge.
"It appears you have been studying the Ironclad Charm and its derivatives," Professor Brod nodded, impressed. "That particular technique is complex—it requires multiple powerful casters, but it is a perfect example of modern magical efficiency."
"Do you know why these ancient spells, for all their power, are no longer popular in contemporary usage?" Professor Brod asked, shifting the discussion back to theory.
"Slow tempo, long, complex chant?" Albert guessed, raising an eyebrow.
"Precisely," Brod confirmed. "In a rapid wizard duel, the skilled, quick use of simple, effective spells is paramount. A quick Protego or a simple counter-jinx will always be preferred over a protracted, wordy invocation. Speed is protection."
"Could you at least demonstrate the Comprehensive Protection spell for me?" Albert asked suddenly, eager for the visual reference.
Professor Brod raised an eyebrow at the demand but conceded. He raised his wand and traced a slow, deliberate circle in the air, his lips moving in a low, complex tonal chant that vibrated subtly with the surrounding magic.
The air around him visibly disturbed—not with a flash or a shockwave, but with the subtle rippling distortion of an invisible force field snapping into place. Professor Brod was now encased, seemingly untouchable.
"May I touch it?" Albert asked, stepping forward with an intense focus.
"Feel free."
Albert reached out and pushed against the air surrounding the professor. His hand was met by an immovable, invisible force, preventing any further movement.
"That's truly impressive," Albert said, stepping back. "However, I remember a similar, if simpler, protective ward called 'All-Blessed' that was designed to protect a specific area, not just the caster…"
"That spell, Absolutae Defensio, has far-reaching applications, far beyond mere personal defense," Professor Brod said softly, understanding Albert's line of thought—protecting a room, a container, a hidden object. "Don't rush, Albert. You are still young, and you have a lifetime to master these things."
Albert remained silent. He knew his true protective spell—the one he truly wanted—was not Absolutae Defensio, but the runic enchantment on his bracelet, which needed to be subtle, portable, and permanent. He needed the tonal key to unlock the runes.
Professor Brod guessed the direction of his thoughts; the boy was too predictable in his ambition.
"Ah, alright, here." Professor Brod suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy piece of parchment, embossed with a silver seal, and handed it to Albert.
"What is this?" Albert asked, surprised by the sudden, formal gesture.
"It is clearly an invitation," Professor Brod said, a genuine smile forming. "A highly exclusive one. McDougal is planning a small, private conference next month, bringing together several colleagues and friends who are experts in Ancient Runic theory and application."
"Why would he invite me?" Albert asked, genuinely confused. The invitation felt disproportionately formal for a student.
"Because, Albert, you are now a semi-specialist in the field—arguably the youngest such specialist in the British magical world," Professor Brod stated with pride. "Believe me, many of the attendees will be eager to meet you. This academic field has been desperately lacking fresh blood for a very, very long time."
"Me, or the expert?" Albert asked, a slight, cynical twist to his mouth. The term "expert," in his previous life, had often carried a negative connotation, especially for television pundits. Experts don't have time to go on television and criticize you, a saying from that era went.
For some reason, the entire scenario felt distinctly unusual. As far as he knew, wizards generally didn't hold a high status in the academic magical world until they reached adulthood; they were generally regarded as minors, objects to be protected and taught.
A twelve-year-old expert?
Albert found the entire concept quite amusing, not because he disagreed with Professor Brod's assessment of his knowledge, but because it so dramatically clashed with his previous perceptions of the hierarchical magical world.
The reality of his genius was quickly forcing the magical world to bend its own rules around him.